Dance of the Darkness
by MotherOfBirds208
Summary: (Currently a prologue-thing) When things go wrong, (Repeatedly), Harry starts to fall into a routine of hiding in the dark. When starlight once again punctures his safety-bubble, two (possibly ex)rivals find themselves as pieces in a much larger game. The two have three nights to win this dance of darkness, or they are destined to be pawns. Future slash Now on ao3 under same title


**Brief warning: This is going to be weird for a while. It may seem a bit disconnected, but please give it a shot. This is just my embodiment of a small plot bunny, and I will finish it in a vaguely more story-like way. I DON'T OWN THE CHARACTERS! Which, I think is a bit obvious. Anyway, this is rated for minor places where it swears (A bit uncharacteristically, but tired people are grumpy so...) and is pretty much about an example of alcohol abuse. SO... here goes...**

It was just a dance. Just a brush of hands and magnificent cloth. It was a simple swaying of bodies, pressing so close that one's breath may warm the other. It was amazing, that was what it was. With the starlight and gentle clinks of glasses. It was beautiful amongst the shimmering cloth that the upper-class wizards deemed worthy of their robes. It was an amazing, calm, serene, and perfect night that could have sonnets written on it's tranquility.

Plus, the music, oh, it was so captivating, how could he be expected to not dance? Sure, he may have had a bit too much to drink, but could you really blame one raised on imaginary cake? It's not like he would pass up the offers of those little shrimp-like things in a weird metallic sauce. Why should he pass up the crystal glasses with sparkling alcohols of all colors and textures? It's not like he was going to embarrass himself.

Apparently, that is exactly what he did. Hermione went on about how the press was having a field day. So what if he got a little drunk? So what if he acted like any normal person would, when faced with such a spectacle that only magic could create? So what if he danced? So what if it was with a bloke? So what if he only pretended to be affected by the obvious amortentia the guy slipped him? So what if the boy who lived wanted to dance anyway? So what if he set fire to the christmas tree with the firewhiskey he spilled? That last one was the press' fault anyway. It's not like anyone _died_. Really, you save the wizarding world once, the next thing you know, everything you do is labelled some form of "Has the hero who did this, that and all those exaggerated and false amazing things gone evil and has this all been an elaborate plot to slaughter us while we sleep?". Sometimes he wondered what would happen if he really went darkside. Maybe they'd be so caught up in trying to find a catchy headline, they'd forget he was _actually_ wrecking havoc.

"Honestly, it's been long enough since the war, you'd think they'd leave you alone, Harry" Ron grumbled, throwing down the newspaper. At least Ron was taking the evening in stride.

"Hm." Harry answered. A bit of a hum, but also a full sentence. Hm seemed to be the perfect answer. Yes, perfect, he decided as the silence that followed had none of the previous tension resided in the air. At least in Harry's perspective. Ron only sighed and hoped that the conversation had counted as comforting.

Hermione was being supportive, but she's been so on edge lately. She even went so far as to label the event, "Night of The Grand Christmas Ministry Feast Where Harry Embarrassed Us All". NTGCMFWHEUA for short, which was pronounced as an angry growl of jibberish. Harry had spent five minutes looking thoughtfully out over the horizon, before deciding that, yes, it was an appropriate noise to describe that night. He later changed the the last two words of his conclusion to 'his entire life'. When attempting to voice his ponderings however, a grouchy Hermione told him to "Fuck off, it's three am and I have work tomorrow! This isn't even your house, Harry!", before falling back into a strange sleep on the sofa, all the while muttering about llama wool and it's potency for magic carpet weaving.

Harry made a second conclusion that night. Hermione is unpleasant while she's asleep, do not approach. At least she wasn't as unpleasant as the hangover he had after the ntgcmfwheua. He had almost apparated to St. Mungo's, but thought better of it. With his luck, he'd end up in a dumpster somewhere. He was preoccupied with thoughts of asking a large, cartoony banana for a hangover potion, or three. The memory of his thoughts did the same thing as they were first thought.

Wandering aimlessly into Hermione and Ron's kitchen, Harry grinned emptily.

**Okay, hopefully that wasn't too weird. I promise to continue and make the next chapter a bit more coherent. Anyway, Constructive criticism helps a lot, and good reviews make my heart explode. Thanks!**


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